Damien Blakey appeared refreshed and exhilarated as he emerged from the Dag Hammarskjold Auditorium that evening. His speech before the delegation at the UN Building had gone off without a hitch, and despite the gravity of its importance, his audience proved both rapt and inspired.
He had convinced the world powers that the joint
agreement between the USA and the EU allowing simultaneous programming of its
Verichip satellites was a paradigm for the New World Order and its
implementation. It ensured that all persons embedded with the chip would be
immediately traceable throughout both America and Europe. They could be located
at any time or place, with their medical, financial and legal records fully
accessible. It was an absolute guarantee against kidnapping or other abduction,
provided full prevention against an individual becoming lost or detained
against their will. It gave a person immediate access to their bank accounts,
more secure than any credit or debit card. It eliminated the possibility of
identity theft, provided vital statistics to any emergency medical service, and
helped the authorities ascertain the legal status of anyone on both continents.
It was, he assured the world, automatic acceptance into
the world community.
He and his entourage crossed the street to the
Millenium UN Plaza where they had reservations for dinner in the glass-domed,
elegantly tiled Ambassador Grill. They enjoyed a sumptuous meal before it came
close to their scheduled flight back to Washington.
"I need to use the bathroom," Damien informed
his two Brownshirts and the MPDC detective at his beck and call. "Call the
limo and we'll take the chopper to the heliport."
Damien's ASPs (Armed Security Personnel) was becoming a
law enforcement phenomenon across the country. Known as the Brownshirts (or
Shirts in their ad campaigns), it started as a volunteer force recruited to
augment ICE (*Immigration Control and Enforcement) units in key cities across
the country. It was the high-profile campaigns in those areas that caused
volunteers to step forth in droves. Damien began to use them for a wider
variety of assignments, raising their profile even higher as an elite group. It
became an in-thing to be a Shirt, and there was always the possibility of being
assigned to a major political event where the media treated world political
figures like rock stars. Damien remained behind the scenes, playing his
Machiavellian strategy perfectly as he slowly but steadily reinforced his
position along the top echelons of government.
Only three nights ago, he found his anonymity compromised
by a weird event. He had returned home to his Georgian-style home in the
exclusive Kalorama Heights area Thursday night in his Porsche, activating the
garage door with his keyfob as he pulled into the driveway. He stopped it at
once in noticing graffiti on the door. He leaped out of the car and saw the
number '911' spray-painted on the door.
He cursed and swore as he pulled the car into the
garage and reactivated the door from outside. He decided to look around before
calling the police. He searched the driveway and the sidewalk, the tulip garden
and the shrubbery, then stalked up the walkway before stopping short at the
sight of more graffiti.
He saw the similar marking '9:11' appearing on his
front door in blood-red spray paint. He looked around angrily, wondering how a
vandal could have done something like this without having been seen. Even
worse, what would make him target Damien Blakey?
He decided not to tell his boss, Sandra Flores, the
Assistant Secretary of DHS (*Department of Homeland Security), about this. She
would probably tell Marlon Ritz, her future father-in-law, the Secretary of
Homeland Security, who would probably tether him to a full-time security team.
He decided his Brownshirts and his MPDC connections could take up the slack. He
would call Detective Mulvihill in the morning and see if he could get him to
pull a full-time watch. He would rather have Mulvihill than a bunch of Ritz'
watchdogs. He was sure that his connections with the MPDC would go along with
He entered the $1.5 million mansion with its 11-foot
ceilings and highly-buffed hardwood floors, switching on the light to study the
colonial-style living room furniture placed strategically around the brick
fireplace. He needed to use the restroom, but when he flicked the switch he was
shocked once more by what he found.
The words 'Rev. 9:11' were finger-painted on his
bathroom mirror with the same blood-red paint. He rushed to the study and
retrieved his .357 Magnum, rushing to check the upstairs bedrooms before
returning to the main floor and completing his search. Satisfied that the
intruder had long since departed, he switched on his PC and got online, putting
the abbreviation into his AOL search engine.
"And they had a king over them, which is the
angel of the bottomless pit, whose name in the Hebrew tongue is Abaddon, but in
the Greek tongue hath his name Apollyon."
Damien put the words into his search engine, the
results raising the hair on the nape of his neck.
Damien was astonished that his uncle dared to set foot
in DC, much less break into his home here in the Heights. The man had truly
gone insane and had to be stopped. He was already on top of the FBI's Top Ten
List as Public Enemy Number One, having surpassed Osama Bin Laden himself. He
knew that his uncle would continue to risk his life harassing him, as suicidal
as a moth drawn to a flame. He would forever seek justice in trying to avenge
his Dad's, Damien's Grandpa's, death. Yet it was hard to believe that the man
could be this foolish.
The elevator door sighed open at its appointed stop and
the quartet exited into the carpeted hallway. They walked along the corridor,
spreading out casually as Damien took leave for the restroom.
The three bodyguards separated, searching up and down
the corridors according to routine. Eddie Mulvihill stepped out into the main
corridor and was confronted by the taller of the two brownshirts.
"Guy on the fire stairwell says you got an
emergency call," the brownshirt peered from beneath the black rim of his
cap. "Think you can tell the guy on One that I got a break at ten?"
"Say who the call was from?" Mulvihill asked.
"Said it was a female," the brownshirt
shrugged, swaggering back down the hall. "Didn't get the name. Typical
The detective glared at the back of the brownshirt,
swearing under his breath as he descended the corridor to answer the call. Most
of the volunteer force were toy cops, wannabees with more enthusiasm than
qualification. He trotted down the stairwell, determined to take it up with the
powers-that-be that they needed more professionalism in the introductory ranks.
Damien Blakey relieved himself in the lavatory, exiting
to find one of his brownshirts washing his hands at a sink.
"Everything okay?" he washed his hands in a
sink by the door. "We need to get airborne in about thirty minutes.
There's a tight schedule between here and DC."
"There may be a delay."
Damien's blood froze when he found himself face-to-face
with the Destroyer.
"You didn't think I was going to abandon my only
nephew so soon in life?" Richard Mc Cain seized Damien's left hand,
racking it in a wristlock, twisting it to the breaking point. Damien let loose
a stream of sulphurous curses as Richard led him to a toilet stall.
"You'll never get away with this," Damien
cursed and swore. "This building is packed with security and police."
"So far so good," Richard allowed. He next
locked his fingers onto Damien's carotid artery, blocking the flow of blood to
his brain and sending him into momentary unconsciousness. Damien collapsed to
his knees and Richard quickly wrapped his arms around the toilet bowl, binding
his hands with masking tape.
"This is a lot more than you provided me with at
your interrogation center," Richard stood with arms akimbo as Damien
regained consciousness. "A cell can have quite a stink after a week
without a toilet bowl."
"There won't be enough of you left to dump in a
toilet bowl next time," Damien hissed, struggling against his bonds. He
was positioned so that his face was forced into the bowl, inches above water
"Well, you may or may not have the chance to see
that day, Day," Richard grinned wolfishly. He rammed his fist into the
paper dispenser, breaking the shield and popping it open. He grabbed a roll of
paper and reached around Damien's head, jamming it down the toilet drain.
"I'm sure you remember this one from your days at
Brandeis University," Richard chuckled. "The water'll rise in a few
minutes after we flush. I hope you're real thirsty, or that you can hold your
breath long enough for your knuckle-draggers to show up."
"You won't get away with this!" Damien
screamed, his voice echoing in the bowl. "Guards!"
"You've got to admit, this is more of a chance
than you gave my Dad," Richard muttered before he flushed the toilet and
headed out the door of the restroom.
The Brownshirt swaggered down the hall where Mulvihill
reappeared from the elevator.
"Did you see my relief?"
"Nah," Mulvihill grunted, not having bothered
to ask. "Nobody knew anything about the call. I called my wife and she
said she never called here."
"You may wanna check to see if he fell in,"
the man continued past Mulvihill in a patrolling gait. "He's been in there
about ten minutes. Something about his hair getting wet."
Mulvihill's instincts sent him to the restroom directly
despite the cavalier attitude of the guard. By the time he rescued Damien and
alerted the lobby police, the Destroyer had vanished into thin air.